The Peace That Confirmed It

Sometimes God confirms a decision…

Not by changing our circumstances.

But by bringing peace in the middle of them.

One morning, my son Shia had been awake since around four o’clock.

By sunrise, his body had become increasingly dysregulated.

If you’re raising a child with special needs, you may know these seasons.

They ask for your full attention.

For years, when mornings like this happened, my mind would immediately drift to my calendar.

If I had a gathering…

A workshop…

A coaching session…

Part of me would begin wondering:

How is this going to work?

Will Shia still need me then?

Who will be with him?

It wasn’t that I wasn’t present with my son.

I was.

And God had always been faithful.

Every single time.

But my mind was quietly carrying the weight of everything else I was responsible for.

That morning felt different.

Not because Shia was different.

Because something inside me was.

After months of praying…

Listening…

Waiting…

I had recently made one of the hardest decisions of my life.

I had released a season I loved.

As I sat beside my son that morning, I suddenly noticed something.

Where my mind had once been full of noise…

There was now quiet.

Nothing was pulling at my attention.

Nothing was asking me to be somewhere else.

There was simply…

My son.

And me.

For the first time in a very long time…

I could simply be his mom.

In that moment, a deep peace settled over me.

Not because everything was figured out.

Not because I knew what came next.

But because I knew I had followed God’s gentle leading.

This decision hadn’t been easy.

There were tears.

Questions.

Grief.

Wondering whether people would understand.

But every time I became still enough to listen…

I sensed the same quiet invitation.

“It’s time.”

Looking back, I’m deeply grateful for that season.

For every conversation.

Every friendship.

Every person whose life intersected with mine.

Nothing about it was wasted.

But seasons don’t last forever.

Sometimes faithfulness means building.

Sometimes it means releasing.

And sometimes…

It means trusting that God can continue the work He began, even when it looks different than we imagined.

One of the greatest gifts that morning gave me wasn’t certainty about the future.

It was confirmation.

The kind that doesn’t come from having every answer.

But from discovering that peace has quietly taken the place where wrestling used to live.

And for me…

That was enough.

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Part of the Breadcrumbs collection by Abby Lewis—true stories that leave room for God to speak.